CHAPTER 13 – Prom Prep
853 Words
The week before prom smelled like curling iron smoke and lies.
Lia practiced her smile in the mirror, tongue pressed behind her teeth so it wouldn’t look forced. Savannah adjusted her blazer cuff in homeroom, counting to five before reacting to anything. Mila learned to breathe through her nose every time she wanted to throw something. Imani perfected the art of short replies that sounded polite but meant absolutely nothing.
They were rehearsing.
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At Arroyo Mesa High, Jordan moved through the halls like nothing had changed.
He slapped hands, shared gum, and flirted with juniors who wore clear lip gloss and dreams. Offered his jacket to a girl after gym. Told his math teacher he liked her shoes. When he spotted Lia near the vending machines, he grinned like they had a secret.
“Friday?” he mouthed.
Lia nodded. She didn’t smile.
He winked. Walked away.
Behind her back, her fists curled.
That afternoon, the first flyer showed up in the bathroom near the auditorium.
Simple. Black ink on white paper.
He Told Me That Too.
No names. No details. Just one sentence that cracked every hallway whisper wide open.
By the next day, a second flyer appeared—taped to every locker.
A QR code. No caption. Just a red underline beneath the date: April 14… and a screenshot of a DM: you feel different. real.
Some students stared. Some laughed. Some didn’t.
Jordan passed the math wing like always—charming, casual, golden.
But his smile twitched when he saw a crumpled flyer in the trash. He didn’t pick it up. Didn’t break stride. But for one second, he looked back.
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At St. Joseph’s Prep, he was still a legend.
He didn’t even go there, but strolled in like he had alumni status. Claimed he was there for his cousin’s senior showcase. Found Savannah under the rose trellis.
“Nice flowers,” he said.
She didn’t look up from her phone. “Hope you brought some for your funeral.”
He laughed, breezy. “That dry wit. Still my favorite.”
She lifted her eyes, expression unreadable. “And you’re still acting. Go home, Jordan.”
He walked away.
Didn’t see the flyer taped behind the music building. Didn’t notice the screenshot clipped near the very bench where he’d once kissed her hand.
But other people did.
By the time he got home, it was on i********: stories across three schools.
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At Wednesday service, Imani spotted him three pews ahead. Hair neat. Collar crisp. Smile on point.
He helped an old woman find her hymn number. Greeted the usher like a politician.
When it came time for peace, he turned. Met her gaze. Tilted his head.
Imani extended her hand. “Peace be with you.”
His palm was warm. Familiar.
“Always,” he said.
She squeezed once. Tight. “We’ll see.”
She let go first.
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Mila saw him Thursday at the coffee shop near Lincoln Ridge.
He entered like a playlist—hoodie, grin, silver chain—but something was off. He glanced around. Twice. Stood too stiff while waiting for his drink. Checked his reflection in the glass.
When he saw her, the smile came late.
“Still drinking peppermint?”
“Still an asshole?” Mila replied.
He laughed—but it landed wrong. Flat.
He handed her a drink. Wrong name. Wrong order. She raised an eyebrow.
“You’re messing up.”
“You’re welcome.”
“You’re annoying.” She took a sip anyway, unbothered.
He left without another word.
Her friend leaned in.
“Was that your ex?”
“No,” Mila said. “That was my warm-up act.”
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All across town, Jordan existed in fragments.
Football field. Gas station. Gym parking lot. Prom committee meeting.
To the track girls, he was focused. To the underclassmen, flirty. To teachers, polite and tired.
Always smiling. Always just enough.
But sometimes the smile stalled. Sometimes he stared too long at his phone, then pocketed it like it had betrayed him. He told one girl she looked like summer. Told another she had a heart like a compass.
Neither line was new.
The flyers were multiplying—on lockers, on random corners, in bathroom stalls, under windshield wipers. QR codes scanned. Screens lit up.
No names. No accusations. Just patterns.
And Jordan kept spinning.
Kept pretending. Kept performing—because if he stopped, even for a second, he knew it would catch him.
Prom was one day away. And he was running out of versions to be.
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Friday. 3:12 PM. Group chat pinged.
Savannah: Drop is timed. First wave hits after the last slow song.
Imani: Final folder updated. Metadata clean.
Mila: Posters printed. Spray cans loaded. Full art installation.
Lia: [sends meme of a corsage on fire with the caption: “Prom Night Plans”]
They all reacted.
Different schools. Different styles. Same endgame.
The countdown had started.
Jordan didn’t know it yet.
But by the time the lights came down and the glitter settled, he wouldn’t just be exposed.
He’d be visible.
- Writer
